Tales of Ellis Island
by Ceri Moriarty
Summary: The cast write in their journals about immigrating to  and living in  the USA. AU, set in the early 1900's. Rated for swearing. Each chapter has one character talking, and each character will show up once. Based off an assignment I had in 5th grade.
1. Chapter 1

Name: Arthur Kirkland

Age: 14

Country of Origin: England

Occupation: farm boy

Reason for coming to the US of A: because his father's going—to get more money for their family so they can have a better life.

Year of Arrival: 1911

_Hetalia!_

April 16, 1911

Dear Journal (this is _not_ a diary, damnit!),

I'm not entirely sure what to write in here. My elder sister just shoved this empty book into my hands and told me to "keep a record of my days." I don't understand why I'd want to—my life is honestly rather dull. I'm really nothing more than a simple English farm boy with a large family (and, I'm often told, "even bigger eyebrows." Shut up. Stop laughing. My elder brother's are worse). I suppose I could tell you a bit about myself—that's right! I've not introduced myself yet! How rude of me.

Hello. It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Arthur Kirkland. I live in the South of England with my family—a mother, a father, two elder brothers, and one elder sister. I'm about average height and weight for my age, I suppose. I have blonde hair and green eyes. I'm fairly well-educated for my standing—I can read and write, and do some basic arithmetic. As for my talents…I can sew a little, but I'm no longer allowed in the kitchen under pain of eating my own cooking. I honestly don't see what's so bad about it!

D-don't call me feminine, damnit. I just learned those things because my sister had to have _some_ way of keeping me out of trouble.

Also…I haven't told anyone else this (they'd think me mad or lying), but…I can talk to faeries. They're perfectly real, of course, but I'm fairly sure that no one else can see them.

I suppose I'll bid you farewell for now, Journal—Father's calling me to help with the planting. I've been helping out here since I was able to do so—we need all the hands we can get.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

April 30, 1911

Dear Journal,

It's May Day tomorrow. I only mention this because my elder sister Cecilia has been going on and on about it, and how she hopes that that boy from the farm to the west will dance with her. I don't understand the appeal.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 5, 1911

Dear Journal,

Father's leaving for America.

He told us last night at dinner. He's leaving to get more money so we'll have a better life.

I don't want him to go.

Holy Father, please keep my own father safe as he journeys to the New World. Please.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 7, 1911

Dear Journal,

Well. That was…surprising.

Father told us that one of us is going with him to America. Apparently, there was some mix-up or other with his ticket, and they accidentally sent two. Neither Liam nor Douglas (my elder brothers) are going—they're needed desperately on the farm, and Douglas has a sweetheart whom he refuses to leave. Cecilia's out, since Father refuses to expose her to the harsh city life. Mother is _clearly_ not going, since there needs to be someone here to take care of the children.

So…I guess that means I'm going to America.

I'm terribly nervous.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 19, 1911

Dear Journal,

I tried to bid farewell to the faeries today, but they insisted on coming along. I suppose I'm grateful that I'll have at least a few friends in the New World.

I guess this is really happening.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 21, 1911

Dear Journal,

This is the second day of our travel to London, from where we'll go by river boat to the port, and from there across the Atlantic to America. We're walking to London, of course—we barely had the money to get the tickets, never mind hiring a cart! I'm writing this by the fading light of the campfire and the glow of the full moon.

Walking so far with a fairly heavy pack exhausts me. My feet are starting to blister already and I'm hoping they heal soon—it hurts like all get-out.

Good night, Journal. I probably won't get another chance to write until we reach London. Wish me luck!

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 29, 1911

Dear Journal,

We're finally in London! It's such a huge city, when we first walked in I wished I had about ten more eyes to point in different directions so I could see everything! I'm terribly excited. We saw so many different things, so many different people! Even the air is different from our little farm—it smells of _people_. So many people, all packed together in one space—it's…rather disgusting, honestly. It's the one part of London I don't really like. I think I prefer the farm, even though the big city is so interesting. I wonder what New York will be like.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

May 30, 1911

Dear Journal,

We're on the riverboat now, heading down to the port so we can finally start on our way across the Atlantic. I thought I'd be seasick, but I'm not. I rather like the feeling of being on a boat. I think I'll be a sailor when I get older.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

June 2, 1911

Dear Journal,

We're finally on the steamship, headed across the Atlantic Ocean. It was _chaos_ getting on this thing—they wanted papers and things in order, and they kept asking questions and shouting at us. Father says that from what he's heard, Ellis Island on the other side is worse. I certainly hope not—this was bad enough.

Anyway, we were led to our little space on the ship—it's tiny and cramped and dark, and there's nowhere to stand where you can feel the sea breeze! When we came into the port, I could practically taste the salt in the wind—it was bloody _amazing_. But…now we're down here, in what Father said was called "Steerage Class." I asked him what it meant, and he said it was "those who aren't the ones too rich to be making an honest living." I'm not quite sure I understand that, but I suppose it means us. Even though this trip will probably be hell (this place smells almost as bad as London did), I can't wait to get to America. I've heard (mostly from other passengers) that it's an amazing place—from the stories they tell, it's Paradise on Earth. I'll admit I'm a bit skeptical, but I suppose I'll wait and see. Who knows? It could really be Paradise on Earth.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

June 18, 1911

Dear Journal,

I take it back. Whatever America is, it's not worth the trip. Ugh. Being in this cramped, tiny space for over two weeks has nearly driven me mad—I can't even talk to the faeries, there are too many people. Not to mention the seasickness. Did I mention the seasickness? I am absolutely miserable. I wasn't seasick on the river boat, but out on the open sea—ugh. Today's the first day since we got here that the nausea has gone away long enough for me to focus on the words on the page.

Ugh. Too sick to continue. I'm hoping we get there soon.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

July 2, 1911

Dear Journal,

Lord God above, have mercy on me and make the seasickness stop!

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

July 27, 1911

Dear Journal,

My seasickness is gone—_finally_. Thank you, Lord God almighty. Now that I can keep food in my belly for longer than half an hour, it is much easier to focus on writing in this silly book.

I can barely believe that I've been writing here—albeit infrequently—for…over three months. I suppose it's nice to keep track of what happened when, and it's surprisingly soothing to just scribble my thoughts down. It helps me keep a better hold on my temper—something that I…don't have the best control over, if I must admit.

Anyway. The faeries have been unusually chatty over the past couple weeks—they seem homesick for dear old England. I'll admit I'm a bit homesick too—I haven't really had a chance to stop and think about it, which is why I hadn't realised it up until now. But…I miss the farm, and Mother's cooking, and Cecelia's chatter, and even Douglas and Liam, annoying as they may be. They're rather endearing in their own way, I suppose—and they do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Father's been quiet lately. I'm not sure why, but it's disconcerting. When asked, he said that he was considering what he'd do when we got to the New World.

I'm not sure what I want to do, either.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

August 4, 1911

Dear Journal,

I hear we'll be reaching America in a little less than a month. I can barely wait—without something to focus on, it's a bit boring here.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

August 15, 1911

Dear Journal,

I tried to chat with the faeries today while no one was looking. Father caught me.

I—

I—

I don't even know what to say. He scolded me, then comforted me, like he couldn't decide whether he was angry or not. He told me definitely not to talk to the faeries while we're going through Ellis Island—they'll deport me if they think I'm mad, apparently. I am _not_ mad. The faeries _are_ real, just—no one else can see them. But…now that Father's told me not to talk with "those sendings of the Devil," I don't know _what_ to think. Are they real? Are they not? Am I mad?

Bloody damn it all to hell.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

September 2, 1911

Dear Journal,

_Finally_ we have reached America! As I write this, we're standing in line to get off the boat—at the end of the gangplank there's a man in a white coat, and he's questioning everybody as they get off the boat, one by one.

Oh—it's my turn now.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

September 3, 1911

Dear Journal,

Ellis Island was a _nightmare_. People _everywhere_, shouting in so many different languages I can't even keep track of what's what. I was dragged off to be questioned—Father stayed with me, but in a slightly separate line. They asked me so many things—but they seemed relieved that I could speak English—not many of the others in the huge hall did. As I was waiting in line, I had an encounter with another—what's the word? Immigrant?

Anyway, he seemed about my age, maybe a little older, and I tried to speak with him, hoping that maybe I could find someone to talk to _besides_ the faeries—which I didn't speak to at all through the whole ordeal, thank you very much! He just gave me a blank look and babbled something in…French, I think it was. I'm not at all versed on languages, but it sounded like Mother's mother, who is from France.

Bah. First person I try to talk to in the New World, and they're a bloody frog. Figures.

Anyway, after all the questions they asked me (Where are you from? What's your name? How old are you? Are you here with someone? What's your reason for coming here? What's your occupation? When's your birthday?), I was shoved along into another room, where I was poked and prodded, asked to list off what letters were written on a chart on the wall, made to put a puzzle together, and other such strange things. I don't understand what it was all about.

After that, I was reunited with Father, and we were granted freedom at last. I hadn't seen the sun in _ages_, and it was simply marvelous.

We traveled the streets of New York City, looking for the place where Father said he'd gotten us a place to stay. Our place to stay turned out to be about one room at the far end of a hallway near the top of a building. So many stairs made my legs ache.

It turns out that we have lots and lots of neighbors, too—something else that's different from the farm. There's an Italian family who live across the hall, a German family next to them, a Spanish family on our left, a Russian family down the hall, and a French family on our right. They arrived about the same time we did—and what do you know, it was the family of that boy I tried to talk to at Ellis Island! Lady Fortune is cruel in her coincidence, sometimes. Ugh.

The faeries seem happy with our accommodations, at least—they haven't stopped chattering in joy since we stepped through the door.

Well, good night, Journal—apparently I get to help Father search for a job tomorrow. That'll be fun. (Not.)

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

September 21, 1911

Dear Journal,

I'm terribly sorry I haven't written in so long, but I've been so busy settling in I'd completely forgotten!

I suppose I'd best relate what's been going on lately.

Well, Father got a job in a factory, which doesn't pay much—but we get by. I also work—I managed to get a job in a little bookshop. It also doesn't pay much, but it's enough for tuition for school and a little extra to help pay our expenses.

Schoolwork is fairly easy, I suppose, and school's nice enough. A few people made fun of my accent (I can't help it, damnit!), but the teasing's been mild.

As for home life…well, I've made a few friends (other than the faeries) around here. The brothers of the Italian family across the hall are—well, the younger is very friendly, but the older is…not. I've seen the frog, the elder brother (though he looks and acts like the younger) from the German family, and the boy from the Spanish family playing together, and the elder Italian brother seems to hang around the Spanish boy quite a bit. The younger Italian brother hangs around the younger German brother, much to the dismay of the elder Italian—the elder German doesn't seem to mind—

I'd best put names to descriptions. This is tiresome.

The younger Italian is Feliciano Vargas, the elder Lovino Vargas. They live with their grandfather, whose name is Romulus Vargas.

The younger German is Ludwig Beilschmidt, the elder Gilbert Beilschmidt. They came over here on their own when their uncle died—I know that Gilbert is about seventeen.

The frog's name is Francis Bonnefoy. He's here with his mother, Maria Bonnefoy.

The Spanish boy's name is Antonio Carriedo. He lives with his (much) elder sister Anastasia.

The Russian family has two sisters and a brother—their names are (as far as I've been able to pick up) Yekaterina (the eldest sister), Ivan (the middle brother), and Natalia (the youngest sister). They live with their father, Mr. Braginsky.

At school, I've met a couple other people as well—they're twin brothers, and they were born here in America. Their parents are divorced, so they have different last names—the elder's Alfred Jones, the younger's Matthew Williams. They live with their father and mother respectively.

My job in the bookshop is nice enough, I suppose. It's often tempting to just stop, and sit, and read, but I know that they'll sack me if I do that, so thus far I've managed to ignore the temptation.

Father gets home late nights, so I've mostly taken over the cooking. I'm getting better at it, I swear! I haven't set anything on fire for a week now!

I can hear you laughing. Shut up.

Now I've really gone mad, thinking I can hear my own journal laughing at me. (I told you before, the faeries are _real_. I'm not hallucinating them!) That, or I haven't got enough sleep recently. Seeing as I'm half-dead of exhaustion, I'm guessing it's the second. Good night, Journal. Life in the New World…it's good.

—Arthur

_Hetalia!_

Notes: Arthur's brothers and sister are the rest of the UK. His brother Douglas is Scotland, his brother Liam is Wales, and his sister Cecelia is Ireland. His parents aren't anyone particularly special. Shut up about the names, I couldn't really think of any. France's mother is Gaul. England calls France "Francis" and not "François" (the proper French spelling) because "Francis" is the English spelling. This changes in France's diaries—excuse me, journals—which you'll see later. Romulus is Rome. Yekaterina is Ukraine, and Mr. Braginsky (who doesn't have a first name) is General Winter. I hope the other human names aren't terribly confusing~

Hetalia is not mine~ Even the idea is not mine~ I stole it from an assignment we had to do in fifth grade~ But strangely, it's so much more fun with Hetalia characters~!

Aren't my scene breaks awesome? So original, too. /sarcasm

Hope you enjoyed~! Reviews are love, constructive criticism lets me know how to write better, and flames will be used to feed my stove.


	2. France

Name: François Bonnefoy

Age: 14

Country of Origin: France

Occupation: baker's assistant

Reason for coming to the US of A: His mother brought him over after his father died—she heard that an honest woman could make a good living in the New World.

Year of Arrival: 1911

_Hetalia!_

April 7, 1911

Mon cher journal,

I have recently received this blank book from my dearest maman, and I was told to write what happens in my days in it. I must admit, I am a bit confused by this directive, but I suppose I shall do as I was ordered. It would be best if I introduced myself, non?

My name is François Bonnefoy. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, and I am fourteen years old. I suppose I am fairly tall, and I am assuredly quite trim. I live in the town of Dijon, France, just east of the source of the Seine river, with my dearest maman and papa. I work in a bakery just down the street from our own home, and it is a very nice occupation. It always smells so delectable there, and I greatly enjoy it. I do nothing more than sweep up the floor and generally keep the shop clean, but perhaps when I grow older I can start learning how to bake. My favorite flower is the rose, and my favorite color is red. I can think of little more of interest about myself, and Maman is calling me to come help with the housework, so adieu for now!

—François

_Hetalia!_

April 12, 1911

Mon cher journal,

Papa is sick. It was raining yesterday, and he forgot his umbrella at home, so he was forced to walk back all the way from work in the rain. He's been coughing heavily and he has a high fever. With only my income and Maman's, it's not enough to purchase medicine for him.

It is thus far not very bad, and I pray it stays that way.

—François

_Hetalia!_

April 17, 1911

Mon cher journal,

Papa is getting worse. He cannot keep food down and his fever refuses to break. He is sweating constantly and Maman says he is dehydrated. I asked her what it meant and she said that he does not have enough liquid in his body.

We still do not have enough money to purchase medicine.

Please, Dieu, do not take Papa. Please, I am begging you, let him have some more time on Earth with me and Maman. Let his fever break. Let him eat without his stomach rejecting it. Please. I don't think either myself or Maman could take it if he…

I cannot even bring myself to write the word.

I am praying that it does not happen.

—François

_Hetalia!_

April 23, 1911

Mon cher journal,

I cannot believe it.

Papa…he…

I cannot write it. That will only make it more real, and I do not want to make it real.

Maman says we must do something. Papa is…was…the main person who made money in our household, and now that he…

Well, now that…that, we need to find another way to make a living. Maman is talking about the New World—she says that anyone can make a living there, including an honest woman.

I am not sure that I wish to leave my home, especially so soon after…

But if that is what we have to do, then I will do it. I will work hard and I will not complain, in order to keep Maman's spirits up. We cannot have her falling into despair.

—François

_Hetalia!_

May 3, 1911

Mon cher journal,

It is settled. We are going to the New World, or Amérique as it is called.

I shall not complain. I shall do my best in the New World, and Maman and I will make our happiness there.

We are leaving in a few weeks.

I will miss France terribly.

—François

_Hetalia!_

May 15, 1911

Mon cher journal,

Our travel plans are settled. We shall travel by foot to Paris, where we will take a river-boat down to the port, and from there a steamship across the Atlantic.

I suppose this is really happening.

—François

_Hetalia!_

May 20, 1911

Mon cher journal,

We are about a week into our journey to Paris, and my feet ache.

I am too tired to write more. Au revoir, journal.

—François

_Hetalia!_

May 28, 1911

Mon cher journal,

We have arrived in Paris. It is simply splendid!

I am still exhausted. We step on the river-boat tomorrow, and from there it is a few days' journey to the port, then three months' journey across the Atlantic.

I am not looking forward to three months spent in an enclosed space.

—François

_Hetalia!_

June 1, 1911

Mon cher journal,

We are on the steamship now. It was chaos getting on, and it is somewhat chaos now. Maman and I have a space in steerage class on the ship, and there are so many people down here! It is very noisy, and I am hoping that this noise will not continue into the night—it will be very difficult to sleep, and I do not wish to miss three months' worth of rest simply because people will not shut up.

The other passengers have been telling stories about what they've heard of the New World. From what I've been able to gather, it is Heaven on Earth.

Three months in this ship. I admit that I am less than enthusiastic, but we shall see how it goes.

—François

_Hetalia!_

June 15, 1911

Mon cher journal,

It goes horribly. Ugh. The food they throw us is not fit for pigs, the noise is incessant, and the smell—

It does not bear mentioning. Neither does the motion of the boat, which induces a terrible nausea in me.

Au revoir, mon journal. Perhaps I shall write again sometime when I do not feel like vomiting.

—François

_Hetalia!_

July 1, 1911

Mon cher journal,

Ugh. That is all.

—François

_Hetalia!_

July 31, 1911

Mon cher journal,

It…it is Papa's birthday today.

I shall not cry, for I do not wish to render these words illegible. But…I miss him terribly, and I miss our own hometown nearly as much. Alas for the cobbled streets of Dijon…

I miss the bakery. It always smelled so wonderful, most unlike this hellhole of a ship.

I miss our home, with its bright kitchen where Maman could almost always be found.

Papa…I miss you. I wish…I wish that…that you were here. But…it is impossible. One cannot bring back those who have passed into Dieu's arms. And…perhaps it was Dieu's will that Papa passed, for without that, neither Maman nor myself would be on our way to the New World.

I am terribly homesick, and I find myself wishing that none of this had ever happened.

—François

_Hetalia!_

August 17, 1911

Mon cher journal,

I have heard that we will be arriving in Amérique in a few weeks. I am terribly impatient to see this fabled New World.

—François

_Hetalia!_

September 3, 1911

Mon cher journal,

We have passed through Ellis Island. It was…I suppose "exciting" might fit. Perhaps a better word would be "awful," or even "terrifying."

They—the people there—questioned me in that horrible Anglais, which I could not understand, so I stared at them like they had three heads and they brushed me off and sent me along.

There did happen one odd thing. Another of the many people being interrogated attempted to speak to me, still using that awful Anglais. I, of course, responded in my native Français, to which he muttered something which was probably uncomplimentary. I was terribly confused by the whole conversation (if one could call it that), but resolved to brush it off.

Once the questioning stopped, I was reunited with Maman, and we set off into the busy streets of New York City. Maman said that we were searching for the…brownstone, I think it was called…where she had procured for us an apartment. There were many, many stairs leading up to it.

At least we are in a city once more. I have missed the feeling of cobblestones under my feet.

—François

_Hetalia!_

September 15, 1911

Mon cher journal,

Lately, life has been…steady. I have procured a job in another bakery (it is _almost_ as fabulous as the bakery back home), and Maman has found a job making clothes. I have made friends with a few of our neighbors—a German boy named Gilbert and a Spanish boy named Antonio. Gilbert is much older than Antonio and I, but we do not mind. The language barrier makes it a bit difficult, but we have all been picking up a lot of English, and even bits and pieces of each others' languages, so it is not as troublesome as it might be.

Cher journal, do you remember the person who bothered me at Ellis Island? He and his father live to our left. I have tried to talk to him a few times, but he has always snorted and pushed me away. He really has no friends, but he does not seem lonely…I wonder why this could be?

Anyway, one of the little Italians from across the hall seems to be quite fond of Antonio—he may deny it all he likes, but I know the signs of l'amour~! It is the elder, and he is called Lovino. He is quite the grouch—his little brother Feliciano is much cuter—but Antonio seems fond of him as well.

They are both boys, though, so I am not certain it is possible.

Enough of moping over others' troubles. I myself am doing very well here in the New World, and English is not as difficult as I thought it might be. I suppose the word to describe this might be "happiness."

—François

_Hetalia!_

Author's Notes again~

Translations (I don't speak French—everything I know I've picked up from reading fanfiction, which is a bit sad, but there you go—so please correct me on my mistakes):

Mon cher journal: My dear journal (yes, journal is journal in French)

Maman: mother

Papa: father

adieu: goodbye

non: no

Dieu: God

Amérique: America (did you know? The word for "America" in French is feminine.)

au revoir: farewell

Anglais: English

Français: French

l'amour: love

Human names: No new ones. France's mom is Gaul, his name is spelled François because that's the French spelling, you should know the rest…

A couple extra notes: THIS IS THE EARLY NINETEEN HUNDREDS. Everything is the characters' opinions as I think they would be, considering the time period and such. Nothing is meant to be offensive. This goes for the previous chapter, too, and any chapters that may or may not follow.

Hetalia is not mine, the premise is not mine, the scene breaks are not mine. EVERYTHING ELSE IS MINE, ALL MINE, BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA /shot

Hope you enjoyed~! Reviews are love, constructive criticism lets me know how to write better, and flames will be used to warm my freezing toes.


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